Hôkûhelele'i
by Esse
Summary: Strange little 'What if…' AU–type fic. The effects of time compression didn't end with Ultimecia, and Seifer deals with the consequences. 'M not sure about the genre…


_**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to _Square-Enix_. The sweet song does belong to Perry Como and the characters belong to _Square-Enix_. Esse wrote the fic where the sweet song does belong to Perry Como and the characters belong to _Square-Enix. Square-Enix_ owns the spirit of Esse who wrote the fic where the sweet song does belong to Perry Como and the characters belong to _Square-Enix_, thus proving that the world is not Square as some would claim, but a loop that spirals endlessly down the maw of the Heartless corporation that is _Square-Enix.

_**Notes:** This story was started over 2 years ago. _2 years_. Proving that, once again, Esse truly means to finish what she starts. The plot is probably confusing; it's a What if… of the darker sort that I prefer. Not much explanation is given, 'cause I feel that it's really not needed. No mysteries are solved, since mysteries very seldom are._

_**Warnings:** Language, to a point; a scattering of words that would get your mouth scrubbed out by your Sunday School teacher — if you were five. And, since every once in a while I see a complaint about this that makes me giggle, I'm warning that there's both a teeny, tiny dash of het, and ever-so vague hintings of UST of the shounen-ai variety… but vague is _all_ they are! Totally, totally vague, 'cause in this situation, it would be totally, totally wrong. Gee, I _never_ thought I'd be saying that. Umph!_

_**Dedicated to:** _CRUSHERs_, Kai .T and Rin .Y both. If they could use Hawaiian for a title, than so could I! Although _Hokule'a should_ be _Hôkûle'a_ — never mind the trouble representing the '_okina_ and the _kahakô_ properly in normal English fonts, and Document Manager won't allow the 'okina character to show at all— breaking down to _hôkû_, a star, and _le'a_, joy/pleasure/happiness and so on and so forth. A clear star, a star used for navigation, often believed to be Arcturus. As to my title… _helele'i_, falling; scattered, as rain, tears, grains. :big dopey grin: It all makes sense now, right? C'mon, work with me here, folks… :grumbles: I _know_ it's a term used for design — I _said_ work with me! If I'd wanted to be correct, I'd've used _hôkûlele_. Why are you harpin' on my _ôlelo pa'i'ai? Aloha kâkou!

**Hôkûhelele'i  
**.oO0Oo.

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket  
__Never let it fade away  
__Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket  
__Save it for a rainy day…_

He leaned against the weathered stone of the battlement, the sharp verge of the ledge uncomfortable against his hip, but not so much so that he felt the need to move. Moving — would require more effort than he was willing to expend. At the moment. A moment that had already lasted too long; a moment he was going to try his best to end. A moment, if she had _her_ way, that would last throughout eternity.

The bitch had to go. And he was prepared to send her along her merry way. If only to get the wretched song out of his head.

There was, of course, much more to it. But he didn't like dwelling on his reasons. Do that, and he had to remember why he was standing along the narrow bridge, alone. Had to remember what kept Raijin from his side. Had to remember Fu, and her beautiful gray hair hidden by congealing gore.

"_For love may come and tap you on the shoulder, some starless night_…" He grunted, and pushed away from the granite slabs. He really hated the song. Dincht used to sing it constantly during class, under his breath, just on the edge of hearing. And now here it was, haunting him, escaping his lips whenever his guard relaxed. It made him wish he'd given in to his desire, to smack the chicken-brat a good one.

He felt his link with Tiamat snap, and he smiled in pained anticipation. He might still get his chance.

If Squall didn't try killing him first.

Or if they didn't hold back Rinoa, who might also have a grudge or two against him. The whole Adel thing, he told himself, the thought coated in sarcasm, hadn't been the brightest of ideas. Not for a man that planned on switching sides at the very end of the conflict.

And this was the end. Either the witch was destroyed, or the world. However it turned out, he was taking a long nap afterwards — where, perhaps, he'd see Fujin in his dreams, and hopefully not his nightmares. Those he could do without. And Fu, she deserved to appear only in pleasant dreams.

He could see the group of them now, working their way across the clock face; all in a line, perfect SeeDs the lot of them, even the little sorceress, who snagged her coat on the minute hand, and hardly whined about it at all. She had more important things to worry about. They all did.

In a few minutes, they were going to have to worry about him. Rinoa would likely whine a lot louder about that. He figured she had earned the right. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd join her in her tirade. He was tired, and completely fed up, and ready to strangle Ultimecia with her own graying hair if no other method presented itself.

He saw them hesitate as they noticed him. There wasn't recognition, not yet. He'd be easier to identify, if he still had his coat, but that was gone, given to Fu, even though the cold no longer bothered her. The gesture itself had meaning; if he could grab a few hours of sleep, he might even be able to figure out what it was.

A step forward, and another, and he could see comprehension dawn in Squall's eyes, along with sudden hard mistrust. It could have been worse, he mused; it could have been hatred. But Leonhart had practiced apathy until he'd mastered it, and hatred was a strong emotion, difficult to maintain even for a person adept with their feelings.

"Seifer…" Rinoa squinted at him; her eyesight had never been good at distances. Angelo growled, hearing the distress in his mistress' voice. She absently patted the dog along his back, trying to calm herself much more than her pet. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are." He smirked, an automatic gesture to cover his relief; they were _talking_ to him, and that was much better than trying to dodge around the modified monstrosity of Squall's gunblade. "Kill the witch, stop time compression, save the universe, and if I'm lucky, stop by that ice cream parlor in Timber and have their hot fudge and mint sundae." He shrugged, and stuffed his hands into his pants' pockets. "You know how cravings can get."

"Ooo!" Selphie rocked back and forth on her tiptoes. "Those are good!" She smile sunnily, while her grip on her nunchaku tightened.

Squall sighed, and pushed brown hair away from his eyes. "Whatever." Leather-gloved fingers flicked at Seifer dismissively. "Just get out of the way, Almasy. We don't have time for your games."

"Games?" He snorted, and walked closer. "Do I _look_ like I'm playing? I'm killing the bitch, Squall, with or without your help, but I **am** killing her. That's as serious as I get. Look around; do you see the posse? That's _her_ doing, and she's gonna suffer for it. That a motivation you can understand?"

Squall shook his head, and fine chestnut strands fell back over his face. "It's not enough. Who would trust you to watch their back in battle? You run off; you think there's something more important that needs done, and you leave. I'm not giving you the chance to do it again."

"I don't think you understand." Seifer pulled Hyperion, and tapped the tip against the basalt causeway. "I'm not giving you a choice; I _am_ going."

Irvine put a restraining hand on Squall's shoulder, and gave it a gentle shake. "I hate t' say this, but Almasy's right. We don't have a choice. Fighting him would only waste more time — and we could use his help…" He glanced behind him. "Back me up here, Sefie?"

The yellow-dressed girl moved to Squall's other side; she threaded her arms around his elbow, then leaned gently against him. "I'm getting so tired of fighting. Irvie said it. We'll have a better chance of defeating Ultimecia with his help. And I think we all just want this over with." Her green eyes were shadowed, as were the hollows underneath them. "Quistie?"

Quistis had moved to the side of the causeway; she stood, staring out at the swirling darkness, then sighed. "What does it matter? Almasy may betray us," and she turned around, tucking a long strand of golden hair behind her ear, "but he would never betray himself." She walked stiffly, as if a wound, newly healed, still bothered her. "What happened to them, Seifer? What did Ultimecia do?"

"Do?" He snorted, but there was no humor in the sound. "Does it matter? They're gone," he whispered, while leaning heavily against Hyperion. "And she laughed the entire time."

Squall felt some of the tension in his shoulders drain away. "—I think we can trust you, at least in seeking your revenge." He tilted his head consideringly. "But the final decision is Rinoa's. I'm not going to force her to work with you."

The blue-clad girl moved forward, placing herself between the scarred blonde and the SeeD commander. "Irvine has a point. We need help. But I need to know, Seifer. Why? Why did you give me to Adel? The rest — I can almost understand, but Adel…" She shivered, and leaned against Squall's protective bulk.

"Hell." He shrugged expansively. "I don't know what t' tell ya, Rin. I was angry, okay? Fu had just walked out on me, and I'd gotten thrashed by that freak of a GF that showed up… So why not? The bitch made promises to me; she'd promised she'd make things _right_ with time compression." He laughed bitterly. "And, big surprise, she lied. But at that moment, I believed her." Another shrug, smaller, and immeasurably weary. "I'm sorry, but I don't have a better excuse."

She came forward, with lips pursed and eyes narrowed, and stopped directly in front of him. She raised her hand to slap him, then paused, her mouth softening, and instead patted him on the shoulder. "Somehow, I knew it was just you being stupid. God, Seif, are you ever going to learn to think before you act?"

"I'm tryin'." And he was grateful for the chance she was giving him; that they all were giving him. Because they had no cause to. He'd hurt them all, in one way or another. And he knew he'd have some serious apologizing to do, once this was over. To all of them.

It was then he noticed what was missing; what had been niggling at him since the group had first exited the clock tower. He surreptitiously looked over the cluster of weary teens, yet still came up one short. One short, hyper, loud-mouthed brat short. "Where's the chicken-wuss?"

Eyes narrowed in sudden anger, Squall pushed past Seifer, dragging Selphie along with him and leaving Irvine with his arm in the air, still trying to comfort. Quistis stalked after them, her left foot dragging before lifting, an awkward, painful march. And Rinoa watched them leave, her dark eyes bright with moisture.

"What did I say?" he asked, Hyperion heavy and cold in his hand.

"He didn't make it. When time compressed…" she quickly wiped at her eyes, brushing away a scattering of tears. "We lost him. Squall's hoping that when we defeat Ultimecia… Well, we're hoping." A sniffle, and she nudged Angelo up with the tip of her boot. "Guess time will tell." She peered myopically forward, struggling to make out the rest of her group. "Are you ready to face her, Seifer? I mean, _really_ ready? Without your help — I don't know if we'll be able to defeat her. Quistis' leg hasn't healed from Catoblepas' attack, but Squall refuses to wait…"

Didn't make it. The words made too much sense. Fu hadn't made it through time compression. Her body had been there, but her mind… that had been trapped between eras; she hadn't been able to see him, or talk to him; hadn't been able to walk without making her way around things that didn't exist, or without walking straight into things she couldn't perceive.

The bitch had laughed, and struck her down with one razor-edged claw. Laughed, and said there was one less thing to worry about. The next moment she'd promised him that all his dreams would pass into reality — and he knew, at last, how deeply her lies ran, since the only dream that had ever truly mattered to him lay dead on the basalt floor.

_Just in case you feel you want to hold her_…

His hands, tucked back into his pockets, clenched around nothing. He'd managed to save Raijin; had singled out a White SeeD captain during their final assault, and explained, leading her to his grieving friend, Fujin's coat-shrouded body clasped gently to his chest. The SeeD Captain didn't understand: couldn't, but that civilians had somehow gotten caught in the battle, and she'd called her squad together in retreat.

"Get them out of here," he'd told her; _demanded_ of her. "You've already been defeated. But protect them — and I'll kill _her_; I swear I will. SeeD doesn't stand a chance.. but I'm her Knight."

The SeeD captain had stared at him, stared while blood leaked from a cut across her cheek and Raijin crooned and rocked the limp bundle cradled within his arms. She then saluted, not the mocking gesture he'd grown accustomed to as head of the Disciplinary Committee, but in true respect. "Yes, sir!" She gestured, and her squad helped Raijin to his feet — knowing better than to offer to take his precious burden. "You do know, sir, that you've already won?"

"Have I?" he'd asked her. It was hard to believe, standing on the wind-wracked causeway with the battle a few short steps away. History said he'd defeated Ultimecia; history of a future he'd never wanted to come to pass. Ultimecia thought events could be changed; was staking her life on an endlessly repeating loop, that things could change. That this time — no matter _what_ the ancient texts read — she'd be victorious.

"I'm ready," he told Rinoa, Hyperion a glimmering arc through the air as it came to rest on his shoulder.

But he couldn't help wondering, as they confronted the Sorceress, whether Fujin's body would return with them to the past, or remain in this bleak, bloody future, or if it would be as lost as her soul, stranded between infinite possibilities.

.oO0Oo.

"It's the right thing to do, ya know?"

The day was dazzling bright, the sun overhead reflected by the rippled waters of the harbor, sparkles that danced across his vision, forcing him to shade his eyes. The quay was busy, fishermen offloading their day's catches, and divers haggling with gem merchants over their finds: bits of ice coral, a handful of Ifrit's Tears, a prized layrnin pearl the size of a sweet melon that came with the tale of the diver's battle with the layrnin — seal eaters, and more than capable of killing the man foolish enough to reach for its treasure.

Balamb had recovered from the war with a swiftness belied by the towns' folk's apparent laziness. Their occupation by Galbadian soldiers had been dismissed as pure mischance; the reparation offered by Deling refused — as had been Deling's ambassador. Refused politely, but firmly: Balamb wanted no ties to the mainland, or obligations of any sort. Insular and proud, the citizens deftly removed all traces of the war — and with it, all traces of past ties to Garden.

"I _know_, Raijin. You've already explained it." Seifer had never liked Balamb. Too laid-back, too easy going, the citizens of Balamb made him feel out of place, and a bit foolish. He didn't fit in, not with his rigid posture and constant alertness, his gunblade coming more readily to hand than a fishing pole.

Raijin had tried, repeatedly, to lure him to the pier. Raijin tried lots of things: T-boarding, and parasailing, and a flirtation with cliff diving that had left him with a shattered right shoulder and Seifer with the start of an ulcer. Raijin had no direction with his moral compass gone, as out of reach as tomorrow. Seifer — let Raijin drag him along, for it was easier than making plans for himself.

"She was nice, and I made such a mess of her kitchen. I feel like I sorta owe her, ya know?" The winding streets of Balamb led one of two places: the harbor, or the town's quaint entrance. Either direction, a person had no choice but to pass by a certain house with arched doors and windows, an herb garden growing on the second-floor balcony and a veritable forest thriving on the roof.

The house was a bona fide historical site, oldest in the town, though long ago partitioned into smaller dwellings; Seifer remembered a field trip, long years ago, and the guide rambling on about the cultural significance of the building. The lecture had been soon forgotten, but the dark-haired woman who'd stepped out, and offered them apple-spice cookies — her, he remembered. As well as the towheaded kid peeking at them through the window… and it was strange that after so many years, it was only now he realized who it had been watching them with such yearning.

"Are you going to knock?" Seifer asked, brow tilted quizzically.

"Oh, yeah!" And knock he did, but timidly, his usual boisterousness tucked away along with other parts of his life too painful to remember. The door opened, and a dark-haired woman looked up at them, not so much at Seifer, but at Raijin who towered over her; unaccountably embarrassed, he flushed at the awkwardness. "Umm, hi, Mrs. Dincht. I don't know if you remember me…"

Her smile was gracious, while behind her a familiar song played quietly on an antique Victrola. "The Captain, isn't it? You made such a stink in my kitchen. Took a week to air it out."

_You'll have a pocketful of starlight…_

The blush wasn't evident on his dark skin; his fingers fidgeting with the beads of his mala gave away his abashment. "That's why I'm here, ya know? T' say…" He took a deep breath, his fingers now clenched tightly, "I'm sorry for bustin' in, an' makin' a mess, an' being all rude to ya, an' not respecting your home. Or you." Done, and breathless, he gulped air, and stared down at his shoes. "I'm really sorry."

"Apology accepted." Mrs. Dincht patted Raijin's arm in a kindly manner, then held the door open wider. "Now come in, Raijin; I've just finished up a fine Balamb fish, and you can tell me how you've been doing. Your friend's welcome too — as if I don't see you lurking back there, Seifer. My eyesight may not be what it was, but don't think I can't recognize the little boy that kept pestering me for cookies in the man you are now."

"Ma'am." And that she remembered him, and his weekly visits in hopes of more of her delicious baking, was astounding. "We'd love to stay, but there're other people we've got ta apologize to."

"Oh." Her smile fading, she tugged at the frilled edge of her apron. "A shame. If you can't stay, you can't stay… Hate to admit it, but I was looking forward to a bit of gossiping." She tilted her head, long dark hair falling over her shoulder, covering her hands. "Before you go, though… By any chance…" Her hands twisted, and her lower lip trembled. "Have either of you seen my boy? That Squall lad's said he's been busy — but he's never been too busy to visit his ol' Ma."

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket…_

"Zell—" Raijin blurted before the man next to him elbowed him in the side. "I mean…"

"I was planning on stopping by Garden; whole placed is filled with people holding legitimate grudges," Seifer told the woman who'd bowed her head, lest emotion overtake her. "I'll ask, find out where the chi…" he caught himself, and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. "Where Zell is."

_Never let it fade away…_

"Thank you." She raised her head, and painstakingly smoothed out her wrinkled apron. "I hate to be a bother — but I hate more, not knowing. Hell is not knowing."

.oO0Oo.

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket  
__Save it for a rainy day…_

The corridors echoed his steps. Echoed strangely, for the man walking next to him made not a noise, while his footfalls reverberated through the air mockingly. He didn't belong here. Of all the places in the world, here was one he'd _never_ belong — that he'd _never_ let claim him.

His visit to Balamb Garden had gone badly. Badly — as his attack on the school had gone badly. Badly was an understatement of indefinable shape. And yet — it had started out well.

Garden was a training ground for mercenaries; SeeDs and cadets alike understood how easy it was to find themselves on differing sides of a conflict. Instructors taught that there _was_ no wrong side, only a losing side; moral ambivalence and weapons proficiency were given equal weight with mathematics and the arts. Liberal governments would have been appalled at Garden's curriculum. Luckily, they never questioned _where_ their mercenaries came from, only used them then abandoned them as the situation warranted.

And some of the cadets had cheered his entrance; welcomed back the man who'd defeated Ultimecia, who had struck the blow that had cast her into that trap of her own making, the confusion that was the blended streams of time. He'd killed the Sorceress, and ended time compression, and had saved a world mostly unknowing of its peril. He'd succeeded where their own Commander had not — and wasn't that a bitter reality for Squall?

Apologies were given and accepted by a long line of students, faculty — the very people that had confronted Ultimecia with him — until only Squall and Rinoa were left. It had been a long night, and a longer day; they were in the cafeteria, drinking stale coffee from chipped mugs and discussing the ever nebulous 'What now?'

"I **own** Squall's cute derrière until Timber gains independence," Rinoa burbled happily, snuggled against her boyfriend's side — said boyfriend mortified by her announcement, but unable to get a word in edge-wise. "And with me here, learning all sorts of witchy stuff from Edea — did you know the was a Sorceress four hundred odd-some years ago that turned an entire kingdom into lemon drops? — anyway, there's no one to lead the Forest Owls — not that there _are_ Forest Owls, 'cause Zone and Watts are still hanging out with the White SeeDs — but back to the resistance, as I was explaining to the cafeteria lady's son…"

"Yes?" It wasn't that Seifer wanted her to continue; he'd lost track of the conversation at lemon drops. As Rinoa opened her mouth to continue, he said, "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something. Um, you you," he waved his hand, indicating the couple seated across from him, "not just you…"

"Oh!" Rinoa draped herself partially over Squall, squeezing him tight. "Yes! We _are_ getting married. But we're not letting Cid draw up the contract, otherwise it won't take place until the next Lunar Cry, or something. Of course you're invited! Is Raijin coming? I've been working on the guest list—"

"Rinoa," Squall mumbled through a mouthful of her red-streaked hair. "Get off. I doubt Seifer was asking about — that," his mouth turned downward, unable to form the word nuptials; he'd frozen for ten minutes the only time he'd managed 'our wedding'. "And isn't inviting your ex…" he tried pushing her off, but only succeeded in moving her back to his side, "…you know, whatever?"

"Faux pas," the scarred blonde said quietly as the young woman glared haughtily at her fiancé. "I'm happy for you two, I am. And I'll talk to Raijin about it. But, what I was going to ask is…" he leaned forward, drawing Rinoa's attention away from the object of her ire, drawing _both_ their attentions to the seriousness of his query. "Well, it's Mrs. Dincht's worry; she's asked me to check on the chicken-wuss. So where is he? What top-secret hush hush mission is he on, that he can't let his Ma know he's all right?"

Squall's hand went automatically to his forehead, shading his eyes and blocking out a world that wasn't to his liking. "We — haven't found a way to tell her."

"Tell her what?" He didn't like it when his old rival prevaricated; usually, Squall didn't care enough to bother dodging around the facts; he told the truth, and to hell with the people it might hurt. "C'mon. I asked where he _was_, not why you've been givin' Mrs. Dincht the runaround."

"We're all friends with her," Rinoa said, sitting back in her own chair, only her hand remaining on Squall, held within his own. "At first, we thought we'd get him help. That he'd improve. But it's been months, and the doctors say there's no change; the longer it goes on, the less chance…" She sighed, taking quiet support from her fiancé. "He's got — drat, it's such a strange name — saecula saeculoram syndrome — TCS is _so_ much simpler. We thought ending time compression would cure him — them — there are dozens of cases — and most people never even noticed the compression, but some, like Zell — are just stuck." She took a quavering breath, then another. "And we don't know what to tell Ma. The hospital's the best place for him; the doctors—"

"Hospital?" Seifer interrupted, angry and trying his best to keep his voice level. "For anything that requires more than a trip to the infirmary, you're supposed t' get permission from next of kin, or whoever's been given medical power of attorney, not that it would apply in Dincht's case — 'cause his mother's not more than a half-hour away!"

"He was supposed to get better," Squall muttered, glancing about the cafeteria, refusing to make eye contact. "The doctors are experienced with similar cases. Addenwood's known—"

"Addenwood? You sent him to _Addenwood_?" He was screaming, now; screaming in Mrs. Dincht's place: She _never_ would have allowed her son to go there, had she been asked. Which is likely why Garden _hadn't_ asked. "That place ain't a hospital, it's a fucking asylum!"

"It's equipped to handle him," Squall replied, his voice glacial in contrast. "Zell was… **is** a trained SeeD. He's dangerous…"

"And it's changed, Seifer," Rinoa added, flinching when he turned to her. "It really has. It _is_ a hospital; they've private rooms, and visitors are allowed…"

"Lot of good that does Mrs. Dincht now, huh? Dammit." He stood, and picked up his coat from the back of the chair — long, and a deep enough blue to look black, replacement for his old coat left behind in the future. "They're not dangerous, Squall. They're lost. That's all. TCS…" Such a simple acronym for a condition proving inexplicable to the medical establishment; for him, it brought to mind Fujin, and her smile those first few minutes after compression as her eyes tracked nothing at all.

"Where are you going?" Squall had stood as well; he stood akimbo, and looked ready to draw his gunblade at the slightest provocation.

"I'm going to get him, Leonhart. He deserves to be home."

"You don't have the authority."

"No," Seifer sneered, "but his mother does."

And she'd granted it to him, when he'd visited her. She'd leaned against him and wept, her grief too large, too encompassing to contain. When tears ran dry, she'd turned to anger. She cursed Garden, and Squall, who'd been over for dinner just the week before; had sat at her table, and eaten her food, and _lied_ to her about her son. She cursed Seifer, for his hand in the business; cursed herself for being a gullible fool. Then, after drying her face with the frayed edge of her apron, she'd told him to bring back her son. Ordered, while she signed a paper granting him the right to enter the hospital, to discharge one who should never have been their patient to begin with.

That paper had gotten him to the empty corridor; had gotten the doctor by his side babbling in worry, and no little fear. Addenwood had _known_ proper procedures weren't being followed in Dincht's admittance, but had allowed Garden's influence to sway a usually prudent Director and his staff. They'd allowed Garden's generous donation to make their decision on Dincht's admission, and not the rules set in place by the government to prevent just such an occurrence.

Someone was singing, a thin, reedy voice only occasionally hitting the proper notes, but somehow managing to maintain the melody perfectly. "_For when your troubles start multiplyin'…_"

He increased his pace, heading for the open door the worrisome song was coming from. "Doesn't the chicken _ever_ stop with the noise?" he asked rhetorically; the doctor, taking his question at face value, went to great lengths to explain various sedation techniques they'd tried — techniques that made the scarred blonde want to turn around and _burn_ the man, but not until he'd gotten Dincht back to his mother, safe if not at all sound. "Hyne in heels, chicken-wuss…" he complained, entering the room then coming to a sudden, shocked stop.

"_and they just might…_"

"God…"

The room — wasn't a particularly bad room. The walls were painted an uninspired shade of mauve; there was a generic pastoral print hanging from one wall as decoration. The window, curtained in fabric the color of unbleached cotton, let in a square of light; the wrought iron bars covering it seemed more ornamental than useful. The room was clean, and tidy — and raised the fine hairs along his arms in alarm.

"Zell…" The young man was in a hospital bed, covered with a pale green blanket. His wheaten hair — hair that Seifer had never expected to see out of its proud spikes — was overlong, falling across a face that was all angles and huge, unnerving azure eyes. He was thin, bone thin, muscle lost and replaced by nothing; not starvation, but the signs of a carefully controlled diet coupled with an absolute lack of movement, evidenced by the belts binding his arms, and likely his legs, to the frame of the bed.

Seifer turned on the doctor that had followed him in; grabbed him by the lapels of his white lab coat and lifted him off his feet. "You tied him down?" he grated out, fighting for control, fighting that section of his mind where magic was stored, where Firaga was waiting impatiently to be set free, free to burn and exact retribution. "Why the **hell** is he tied down?"

"Mr. Almasy, this is most improper! I must insist you set me—" the scarred blonde jerked his hands tighter, causing the doctor to blanch. "Really; it's common procedure for patients with violent tendencies. It's for his safety as much as—"

"He's **not** violent!" Letting go, Seifer pushed the doctor away, feeling the tingling in his arms, knowing that he was too close to losing control. "Whatever Garden told you—"

"Commander Leonhart made it perfectly clear that Mr. Dincht is capable of killing a man barehanded," the doctor defended the hospital's actions — from the safety of the room's door, escape by means of the corridor just behind his back. "It would be ludicrous to expose the staff to that high of a risk, when the means of preventing it—"

"If he killed someone; _if_ he did — they'd deserve it." He'd walked over to the bed, and was busily unbuckling the first restraint. "It's why he chose martial arts, chose his _fists_ as his weapon. He didn't want anybody to die; didn't want an attack he couldn't control, didn't want a weapon designed to be lethal. You want someone violent, you shoulda checked out your _dear_ Commander Leonhart. Gunblades aren't known for leaving survivors." He chuckled grimly, wiping the back of his hand across the scar running between his eyes. "Survivors are flukes: I _know_."

The second restraint was finished, and he reached across the bed to start on the third. "Zell… You here? Could you be _here_, just for a second?"

"_Hmm hm hm_…" He felt the younger man moving languorously as the belt came free, and he began working on the fourth. "There's a lot of clouds. A storm's moving in."

The restraints undone, Seifer straightened, his arms around Zell's chest, pulling him into a sitting position. The patch of sunlight pouring through the window remained as bright as when he'd first entered. "It's sunny outside."

Azure eyes blinked slowly, and the younger man smiled peacefully, resting his head against the mauve wall. "Sometimes. And sometimes the storm misses. You…" he scanned the room, his attention settling on a spot on the floor, a sparkle of light reflected off the metal of the clipboard attached to the end of his bed. "Why aren't you with Fujin?"

Frowning, Seifer began searching through the drawers of the small dresser, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. "Fujin's dead." With more force than was necessary, he pulled pants and shirts and under garments from the drawer, flinging them to the bed.

Frowning in return, his gaze never leaving the small spark, Zell's fingers searched through the clothes piling up on top of him. "Sometimes," he repeated, over-enunciating the syllables, "and sometimes she's here." For a moment, a brief instant, his gaze hardened, and focused on the man who'd walked back to the bed, a battered suitcase in his hands. "Seifer… why are _you_ here?"

"I'm taking you home. Your mom's missing you. C'mon, get the stupid gown off. Do you want t' wear the black tee-shirt, or the blue sweater?"

"Rinoa succumbed to the Sorceress. The blue sweater was destroyed," the tattooed blonde said, struggling out of the hospital gown. "I like the black tee-shirt."

"I kicked Ultimecia's ass." With a sigh, Seifer helped the other man out of the flimsy gown; slid the tee shirt over complacently lifted arms and soft locks of golden hair. "Your blue sweater is right here; I'll pack it, okay?"

"Okay." And such a sweet, shy smile had no place in Addenwood; no place on the face of a man betrayed by his closest friends. "Ultimecia was a pain. First her, then Griever, then she Junctioned, then — I don't know what that thing was, but eventually we destroyed it."

Getting pants on the younger man was problematic, but eventually they got put on, along with socks and shoes, the laces tucked in instead of tied, because Seifer wanted out of the hospital — and the laces on Zell's cross-trainers were a nightmare of snarled knots. "You weren't at the castle; Squall left you behind. Do you remember at all?" His arm around the other blonde's waist, Seifer helped him out of the room, past the ranting doctor and into the corridor beyond. "You got caught in time compression."

"Of course I did — I do. I remember. You defeated Ultimecia, and Squall did, and White SeeD did, and Ultimecia won, and none of it happened at all." All of this said with a beatific smile, his eyes staring blankly ahead, unable to see the nurse Seifer steered him around. "Seif… You left me here. Forever. I die in this place. Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home." And he didn't know how Mrs. Dincht was going to handle seeing her son like this — unaware, and chatting blithely on about realities that had never occurred. He didn't know how _he_ was managing to deal with it, when the smile, the words, were almost exactly the same as Fu's, during those few, brief hours before Ultimecia, and the end of all his dreams. Their smiles — were exactly the same.

"I know," Zell said, stepping with exaggerated care over something only he could see. "You're here. Except when you're not. Did you bring an umbrella?"

"It's sunny outside," he reminded the younger man, keeping a hold on him as he filled out the forms necessary for discharge; final formality needed to keep him away from Garden forever.

"Sometimes," Zell nodded his head, and signed when the pencil was pushed into his hand; signed his name in several different languages, only a few of which Seifer could identify on sight. "Except when it's not." His nodding changed to a regretful shaking. "You really should talk with Fujin. She's angry, the way you've been carrying on."

He hadn't thought his heart capable of breaking further. "She's _dead_, Zell. Dead."

"No," the other man insisted. "Only here, maybe. But mostly, she's angry."

.oO0Oo.

It was a memorial, there on the edge of the cliff, the sea crashing in a turbulent froth at the base in its unceasing battle to drag the land down. The wind was turbulent, twisting the few hardy pines into strange caricatures, natural bonsai in an environment where even the hardiest of plants struggled for foothold.

"She loved the wind, ya know?"

He'd returned to Balamb with Zell; had seen him to the safety of his mother's house, then left, unable to face their reunion — too much of a coward to stay and watch comprehension dawn on her face, that her son was _gone_ more thoroughly than could be imagined, that what remained in the guise of her son was a manic sibyl foretelling futures that would never come to pass. But then — he was too much a man grown to leave entirely, to leave her with a son so in need of care. He'd stay in Balamb, for now. Stay until his conscience let him flee.

Raijin had been overjoyed to see him; had displayed his newest set of scars gained by rock climbing without tethers, without any of the safety measures that made climbing a sane sport instead of a death wish. And Raijin had been busy during his brief sojourn; at the top of the cliff he'd finally scaled — never mind the trail that led to the top from the grassy plain further inland — he'd made a memorial out of a natural up cropping of rosy quartz, a cracked crystal taller than most men, glimmering pinkly in the last rays of sunset. He'd surrounded it with ceramic flowers, snapdragons and poppies, the flowers Fujin had most enjoyed. Her name he'd spelled out in small, river-rounded stones — and written nothing else. Not the dates of her birth or death — neither of which could be accurately known — nor any message; Fujin had been neither beloved wife nor beloved daughter, only a dearly loved friend of two men that felt no need to advertise on a monument none but them would visit.

"She used ta summon Pandemona just for the hell of it," Raijin mused, sitting next to the exposed vein of quartz, his hand resting lightly on one of the fragile flowers. "Man, it was beautiful. The wind in her hair — and she'd kick the person that ever called her that! She never thought…" He stroked porcelain petals; tapped a fingernail to a stem to make it chime. "I don't get it. I just don't. She was the best of us, ya know? So why her? Why'd we make it through — and not Fu? I try, I keep tryin', but it won't make sense. She was the best, and she didn't see it, and that just made it truer. Seifer…" With a last caress he retuned his hand to his lap, wrapped it around with his mala, his features melancholic in the twilight. "You can hit me, if ya want, but I gotta know… I need… Just, was it for the best, that Fu didn't make it? Was it?"

He wanted to be angry, but the wind brushed tenderly against his face, and tugged playfully at his clothes, and it felt enough like Fujin to hurt. "I don't know," he answered truthfully, holding his fingers out, his palm cupping the breeze. It felt like a kiss. "Zell insists I should talk to her… Maybe I'm selfish. I can _see_ her in his place, Raij; it scares me, that _that_ could be her. I don't know, I just don't. I'd give everything I have to see her again, and everything I have not to see her like _that_." He stretched his fingers wider, and the wind streamed through them on its endless journey. "I don't know the what ifs. I don't know what could have been. …I'm staying in Balamb, for now."

Raijin grunted, standing charily to allow recently healed muscle time to stretch. "It's not your responsibility, ya know?" He pulled the mala over his head, the wooden beads clicking together as they came to rest on his chest. "Not your fault. It was war; we all know the risks."

"His mother can't take care of him, not by herself. And it's not like I have anywhere pressing t' be. Besides," his fingers were cold, and stiff; he tucked them under his arms to warm them, "all of Garden let him down. And it is my fault. I know," he shrugged his shoulder, halting Raijin's denial, "that if it wasn't me, it would've been someone else. The fact is, though… it _was_ me. There were dozens there at Addenwood, Raij; who knows how many over the world. I can't help them all — but maybe I can help one. One little chicken-wuss…"

"His Ma would have a fit, she hear you call him that."

A sneer, quickly gone, and he stood as well, bowing briefly before the memorial. "It doesn't matter. Chicken-wuss is as lost as Fujin ever was. The human mind ain't capable of coping with infinite outcomes. It's like he's there, livin' them all without being able t' tell them apart, and the only sense out of him is that idiotic song!"

"Ya know, he once gave Fujin a music box that played it." Raijin ducked his head at the blonde's dumbstruck expression. "He said she missed out on birthday presents, so she should get gifts just because. I think Fu really liked it; she kept her ring in there, you know the one…"

"Why didn't I ever see it?" And why would Dincht give it to her, when she was part of the posse that harassed him daily? Why give her a gift, when Seifer himself had never bothered beyond the occasional box of candy, or sentimental card? Why a music box, when Fujin scorned music of every variety?

"She knew you hated the song. But after she got it, she'd hum it, whenever she was happy."

.oO0Oo.

Butchering chickens always left a sour taste in the back of his throat. He'd tried sucking on mints, only to gag at the sweet overlaying the bitterness. He couldn't drink; the sight of water in the same room he was working in was enough to nauseate him. Early on, he'd decided it was purely mental, but the realization changed nothing; he could still taste the metallic tang of blood hours after washing up from the day's work.

"_It's easy to forget them without tryin', with just a pocketful of starlight…_"

"Would you shut the fuck up?" he snapped at the woman working at the far end of the room, her hands deep inside a goose, scraping out innards. His own knife slipped, glancing off his thumb, cutting down to the bone of the knuckle. "Damn!" Cursing, he made his way to a sink, peeling off blood smirched latex gloves and dumping them in the trash before rinsing off his hands and inspecting the damage. "See what you made me do? Nearly took off my damn thumb, is what."

"My singing made _you_ clumsy, f'r sure, Almasy," the woman smirked, smacking her gum loudly for emphasis. "Does it need stitches?"

"How should I know?" The bleeding had slowed to seepage; he wrapped a paper towel around it, twisting it tightly in the hopes that the pressure would stop the bleeding completely.

"Best to get it checked out, anyway." The woman got up from her bench and approached, blowing bubbles with the ease of long practice. "You know the clinic, half way down the boulevard, north side of the street; we've got a contract with them." She pointed at the injury, the makeshift bandage around it discoloring a vibrant crimson. "Chickens are filthy things; best not to take chances. Get, Almasy." She shooed him towards the door, tugging at the strings of his smock. "And take off the slop catcher, or you'll have the kiddies running in terror."

"Yes'm," he acknowledged, removing the smock and placing it in the nearby bin. "Am I getting docked for this?"

"What do you think?" she raised one eyebrow archly. "Lucky I'm not firing your ass… but then, I wouldn't get the privilege of staring at it all day."

"That's harassment."

"Them's the breaks, sweetie." She laughed, and chomped, and went back to the partially gutted goose. "See ya tomorrow."

"Right." He left, out through the shop entrance and on to the broad street, then sat on the curb. Unwrapping his thumb, he glowered at the slash before casting Cure, then wiped the remaining blood away. "I hate this place," he said, as a cup floated past him down the gutter, along with soapsuds and sodden leaves and other unidentifiable things.

He hated Balamb, and the people within it. Hated the Dinchts, and their need for him, hated himself for _staying_ and trying to make amends when nothing he tried changed anything; nothing he did _mattered_ in the slightest. Hated the job he'd taken, so he wouldn't be a burden — a job he'd taken to get him out of the house, and away from his failures. And while he was busy _hating_ with all of his being, he threw in Garden, and Squall, and Raijin… then stopped himself, for he'd come perilously close to hating Fujin — and that was something he'd promised himself he'd never do.

The harbor was busy; he'd climbed atop the sea wall, and watched the people scurry about their business. SeeD business, that arrived in the form of a transport, cadets in stiff new uniforms matched by their stiff, nervous countenances and Instructors doing their best to sort them out. Market business, and a diver that had come back with a Star of Esthar, the opalescent shell of a rare snail seldom found in the cold waters surrounding the island. Family business that came holding hands and carrying a picnic basket for a late night dinner, spread out on the beach and lit by the light of the nearly full moon.

He wanted to leave. He'd been in Balamb too long, he knew that; knew that the world was waiting for him, waiting to challenge him and beguile him and show him wonders hidden for centuries. He got off the sea wall, and walked down the pier to the very end, where a small boat was readying to depart.

"You taking on passengers?" he asked the old man that was crouched down, about to draw in the ramp.

"Depends on where you're going, I suppose," the old man said, taking a quick glimpse at the flag whipping about its staff at the entrance to the market. "Wind is tricksy tonight, she is. She's as liable t' send us straight back here, as to Dollet. A few souls 've figured a pleasurable night out on the sea's worth the price of passage, even if come the morrow they find themselves back at this very dock. If you're boarding, now's the time to do it. The wind, she shifts a smidgen more to the nor' east, we won't be going any where."

One foot on the wood of the pier, and one foot on the wood of the ramp, Seifer laughed, his arms outstretched to embrace the wind. "You'd better go without me then. I think the moment I step onto your boat — I'd ruin your chances of making it out of the harbor. You're right, Captain. You're right. She is a tricky one — the wind."

"Aye." The old man nodded, and waved to the scarred blonde before returning to his task.

.oO0Oo.

"_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away…_"

Morning light came in through the window, brightening the room and catching in the folds of the velure throw covering the young man rocking listlessly in the willow chair. His azure eyes stared at the bits of golden dust floating lazily about, and not at the window beyond. He'd sat there through the night, ignoring his mother's pleas, her demands, her peace offering of a plate of cookies, freshly baked and spiced with cinnamon. He'd sat there, in harsh electric light and in dark and in the warmth of the newly risen sun, and wondered. Wondered if this was the time and the place where he'd forever be alone, or if this was the reality where he was married, or single, or dating, or stuck in the hospital believing he was married, or single…

Of all the hims in all the other places, only a few were _like_ him, smiled back at him, sang with him, though all the Zells knew the words, the single constant in the sea of difference. Sometimes he _was_ those other hims, though it was only the others, the others that sang, that were ever _him_. He'd tried explaining it, to the woman who was mostly his Ma, but sometimes wasn't, but she'd started crying, and so he'd talked of other things, and though he'd thought the conversation innocent, she'd cried harder, and left the room.

He pulled the throw closer, for the room was still chill, and a few times he let the throw fall to the ground, for the room was too warm, but for most of the Zells sitting in that room, in that chair, in front of the window, it was cool, so he thought he'd pulled the throw closer, too. He stroked the velveteen fabric covering his lap, and smiled that he'd guessed correctly.

"_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day…_" the chorus of one sang, though not always the same part, but mostly to the same melody. A reflection in the window caught his attention, and he smiled wider, incredibly happy, though for some hims, there was no reflection, except for what they saw, through him. "You're here."

"Yeah." Seifer sat on the rag-rug strewn floor, and yawned. "Your mom says you've been sitting here all night."

"Mmm." Some of the hims smiled at some of the pale-haired girls come to visit; they grinned in return, or shrugged carelessly before turning away, or weren't there at all. "You talked with Fujin."

"I suppose I did…" The scarred man joined him in staring at their reflection. "It's pointless, struggling against the wind. I didn't want to come back."

"No. And sometimes, you don't." Zell reached out, and thrilled that someone solid met his touch, when so often there'd only been empty air. He turned his head, and in that time, that particular moment — he was there, with his fingers running through the older man's bronze-streaked hair. "But you came back. You always come back. Thank you, Seifer. I don't think I ever told you that, here."

They sat together, smiled together, for close to a minute before Zell's attention wandered, and he reached for a glass of milk that wasn't.

Seifer went to the kitchen to find something for them to drink; the milk jug was empty, and he added it to the shopping list stuck to the front of the fridge. He'd returned, though he hadn't wanted to; returned because the wind was against him in every direction except back. And Zell had _seen_ him, as he so rarely did, and had _stayed_ for longer than he ever had before. It gave him hope, which was more than he had the day before.

The breeze fluttered the calico curtains of the open kitchen window, and he laughed ruefully before singing softly to the memory of the woman that he'd loved. He tucked the small hope close to his heart, and reached into a cupboard for glasses while listening to the whispered echo hidden in the murmurs of the wind.

_Save it for a rainy, save it for a rainy, rainy, rainy, day_…

.oO0Oo.

_**End Notes:** T'was hard, writing the end part mostly from Zell's perspective, but I felt it necessary to give a closer look into what he's actually going through. During time compression, not only did _all_ times become one time, all divergent realities became one as well. Those caught in time compression never noticed, for time didn't pass for them. Those able to bypass compression never noticed, 'cause they were never caught in it. But for the rare few that got caught in the fringes of compression, those that tried to escape but didn't _quite_ manage… they had to deal with the past, present, and future of _all_ possible realities. True, the further away from their own reality an alternate was, the less it affected them (like trying to see a picture through too many layers of transparency), but that still left countless alternates close enough to their own that they were unable to tell them apart from the reality _they_ were in. Sadly, in a few cases, like Zell's, the end of time compression didn't break their link with all the alternates._

_As for why he, and Fu, were always smiling? Hey, even though their own lives may've sucked sour grapes, there would be at least one of their alternates having a jolly good time. And if you can't tell their good time from your good time… :rubs her head: Okay, I just confuzzled myself._

_And, because these endnotes aren't confusing enough already, here's a bit of the story that didn't actually _fit_ into the story. Zot zot zot._

**Omake  
**.oO0Oo.

She was stirring the pot when she heard shuffling steps behind her. "Hey sweetheart," she said, turning around and smiling at her son. "Want to help me with dinner? I'm making your favorite."

He blinked, and tucked overgrown bangs behind his ears. "Oh." Lost in thought, he leaned against the doorframe, his fingers toying with one wheaten strand that refused to stay put. "What are you making?"

She stirred the pot, and bit at her lower lip, and didn't turn around again. "Pasta, baby. Mushroom fettuccine. Your favorite."

"…Oh." This time around, his acknowledgement was slower; he came further into the kitchen, and stared over her shoulder to the pot boiling merrily on the range. "I like that." He tugged on the strand of hair, his grip turning painful — but he didn't stop. "I… who are you?" He knew he'd asked the question before, was _constantly_ asking — but the answer often changed.

"Your Ma." She leaned over the pot, letting the steam take the blame for the dampness on her face. "I'm your Ma."

"I know that," he said, a bit cranky, moving to the side and staring curiously at the block of hard, white cheese sitting on the counter. "I do. In this house — you're my Ma." Letting go of the abused lock of hair, he bit at the nails of the fingers that had been holding it. "I know this house…"

"You should. You've lived here most of your life." Testing a noodle, satisfied with its texture, she stirred a final time, then set the wooden spoon down. "Time to drain them."

"I've got it." He walked to a cupboard, then bent down, pulling out a colander and holding it out to the dark-haired woman. "This place — it's almost always the same," he said with a small, hurt smile. "And when I'm here," he passed the colander over, then closed the cupboard door, "you're my Ma. And sometimes when I'm not here. But always when I'm here." He sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. "What were we having for dinner?"

"Pasta." She sighed, and strained the fettuccine, pouring it back into the pot and mixing in the sauce. "It's your favorite."

"Mushroom fettuccine," he agreed, taking down three shallow bowls, then staring at them quizzically. "Three bowls," he counted them, making sure. "Who else is there, Ma?"

"Seifer, dear. Seifer eats dinner with us."

"Of course he does." He shook his head violently, hoping to jar proper memories loose. "Ma…" and he was _pretty_ sure she was his Ma, though sometimes he could have sworn that the woman working over the range had red hair, cut short, and wore jeans instead of a dress. "Where's the door?" His free hand patted the wall lightly, feeling plaster that his eyes assured him wasn't there.

"Zell…" Her shoulders slumped in weariness, she guided her son two feet over, and helped him into the living room. "Can you see the table?"

Nodding his head, he walked over, confident that _one_ of the three tables he saw had to be real.

Back in the kitchen, grating cheese, she flinched as the first bowl shattered as it hit the floor.

**End Omake  
**.oO0Oo.

_**Continue End Notes:** So, if'n anybody wants t' chitchat with me over the ficcie, leave a little note, and I'll chitchat. If'n you want to flame — please do! I can't afford natural gas prices this year, and am living from the shelter of my electric bankie. The furnace ain't even lit. It's _cold_ in here. The heat of your ire might keep my warm enough t' write — heehee!_

_**Esse's Speeleng:** I like putting e at the end of words. Which is prolly why I insist on using blonde, and brunette for guys, instead of the proper blond and brunet — those just throw me off. Le sigh. Hey, we all know the Y-chromosome is inherently flawed, and will one day fail due to the accumulated build-up of genetic defects, leaving it up to the female population to evolve to the point of being able t' reproduce asexually — and _all_ nouns will be used in their feminine forms, so I'm just getting a head start on the grand, generic, non-gender specific language of the future. Same doesn't hold true for my usage of fiancé and fiancée, because, holy moly, one has an e, and the other, 2! 2 e's! I wuvvles the e._


End file.
